Monday, November 12, 2007
My emergency stash. I've buried this stuff in secret locations throughout L.A.
I am always just missing the runs on gold. I knew it was too late to try to figure out how one invests in gold when I heard about the soaring gold market on the radio a few days ago. It's always just after I hear about the rising market in this or that (uranium, housing, etc.) that I want to get involved -- and everyone knows it's much too late by then.
Since gold tends to go up when the dollar is in freefall and oil is skyrocketing and the world is going to hell, I am thinking I may yet catch another gold run.
I sometimes wish I could stay home and not shave and wear pajamas and just speculate on various markets every day. I have this stupid idea that I could make lots of money investing in commodities, index funds, pork bellies, etc. I entertain the delusion that armed with subscriptions to the L.A. Times, the Economist, Harpers, and an internet connection, I will somehow outthink the world's financial markets. I will be the one converting the knowledge I glean on page A17 of the paper into huge gains. Or maybe not.
I am pretty sure by now that I have very confused feelings about money. I usually try to imagine that I don't want it or need it (congratulating myself for nursing the Intrepid into old age and refusing to buy a replacement for my decaying wallet, etc.) and that people who do are somehow deeply flawed, etc. But then again, the idea of hoarding a pile of money that then creates more money seems very satisfying in a way that I know is perverse and probably, at its root, infantile. It's likely tied up with some deeply infantile desire to create, to see generation out of something dead (and dirty). What's that line about love pitching his mansion in the place of excrement?